


Stand and Deliver

by k8ec



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU 1811 or so, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8ec/pseuds/k8ec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When faced with losing the family estate, John is forced to desperate measures. Enter the Holmes brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand and Deliver

Set: AU. 1811 London & surrounds.

A/N: Sherlock & John belong to ACD, & the BBC. I just get to play with the characters minds!

This is intended to be an AU. Any historical errors and the like may be considered to be a part of this version of the world, rather than ours. 

#-#-#-#-#-#

 

“Stand and Deliver!” was the shout that followed the shots and the sudden shuddering halt of their carriage on the dark stretch of road.

Sherlock could hear the coachman cursing foully as he strained to calm the black matched fours and stop them entangling their feet in the traces.

“Still finding the journey tedious, little brother?”

Sherlock snorted, “Unlikely! Highwaymen this far from London? Wouldn’t miss this for the world!!”

“Three, I believe, all of them veterans judging from the speed with which Gates complied. I doubt he would consider stopping for a mere two!” 

“A wager then! A sovereign says there are four men – two of them Army veterans.”

“Pittance!” Mycroft added scornfully, flicking a speck of snuff from his sleeve. “If you are firmly convinced of the accuracy of your deductions, then I will consent to a wager – but for no less than the bay colt you purchased on Wednesday.”

“He is to be a gift to Mummy! She was looking for a colt of suitable lineage to breed with Contessa,” Sherlock responded with a frown.

“Uncertain, Brother-mine?”

“Never!” was the unhesitating if sulky response.

Their squabbling was interrupted by the appearance of a pistol through the now open door.

“Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to remove your pocket watches and any money on your persons, then place your hands on top of your heads,” a mellow voice intoned dryly. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows even as he raised his hands to comply. “A gentleman! From …Chelmsford? Junior military officer, recently returned – no, repatriated, from the Peninsula war, severe weight loss, wound to the … dominant left shoulder. Luckily for him he is ambidextrous!”

“Really, is that all you see?” Mycroft added, ignoring the muffled sound of protest from the masked brigand.

Sighing deeply, the older man continued the analysis.

“Not just a gentleman, the younger son of minor nobility – obviously forced into unsociable behaviour by the death of his father - dependants to support and an inability to pay the death taxes on the estate. Educated at … King Edward’s College and Cambridge, I believe. Served on the Peninsula under Arthur Wellseley, 33rd Regiment …”

“Member of his General Staff, I think!” interposed Sherlock.

Mycroft acknowledged the hit. “Indeed. Physician and officer – rank of Captain, though. He has indeed seen better days!!”

Talking directly to their captor for the first time, he continued, “Could you not find a more valid way to discharge your debts? Must you resort to petty theft from your social betters?”

“Pocket watch and money, or the next shot goes through your foot!” was the dry response.

Grumbling at their losses, the occupants made a pile of their belongings on the floor of the carriage.

“Thank you!” was the sarcastic reply. “Now if you would be so kind as to refrain from further comment while your portmanteaus are examined, we can all be about our business – lawful or otherwise!”

“Pensioned,” Sherlock commented to his brother. “That amount of money couldn’t support a debtless single man! Considering his loss of mobility, most respectable forms of employment are now beyond him!”

“His brain, Brother, has not been damaged! A man of his abilities (inferior though they are to our own) should have significantly more options than consorting with riff-raff such as the utterly ordinary cohort currently accosting Higgins! If I am correct, this man assisted George Scovell in breaking the French cipher!! Surely the Army could have found something a good deal more challenging to a decorated officer than pensioning him off to join the general populace! The waste!!!”

“I’m standing right HERE!!” the indignant highwayman interposed.

Sherlock snorted his derision. “Considering some of the idiots they allow in to strategic positions …”

“You are aware that I am pointing a loaded pistol at your heads aren’t you?”

“You are referring to Gregson, I hope!” the older sibling replied. “Certainly his abilities leave much to be desired. Still, given the current state of events, it shouldn’t be too difficult to determine the true name of our captor; I did receive a letter from Arthur just last month. Of course it was dated from February, but in light of the terrible weather on the continent it is not surprising that the dispatches and mail have taken so long to reach Whitehall.”

“Are you trying to bore me to death, or make me lose control of my temper? Because I have to say that if that was your intent, it’s working a treat!”

“Mummy will be most upset at the loss of Father’s watch. Don’t fancy your chances of getting that Reynolds portrait from her now!”

“Gloat all you will, brother, she won’t give it to you either! Not after that incident with the butter churn in the larder last spring! There is nothing Mummy dislikes more than finding replacement staff two days before a Soiree.”

The slight scuff of a boot on gravel had the felon turning swiftly, but despite his speed, the last thing he saw before he hit the ground was a cudgel aimed at his head.

“Well you certainly took your time Fletcher! What on earth kept you?” Sherlock asked peevishly. “The strain of forced conversation with Mycroft nearly had me tearing my tongue out for want of something more interesting to do!”

“Your pardon Your Grace, Master Sherlock, but the other miscreant proved to be quite a challenge.”

“Going for the decoy document box, was he?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Lowry put on a masterful show; almost had me going! Got a bit roughed up in the process, too.”

“Yes, well he’s been paid enough for the risks!” Sherlock responded without an ounce of sympathy.

Fletcher dropped the cudgel and picked up the man at his feet. “Should I throw him in the baggage coach until we can contact the constabulary, Sir?”

“Certainly not! An enterprising young man such as this can be put to much better use than languishing in some cell, or worse, a Hulk in the Thames!! In his current condition, he wouldn’t survive long enough to plead his case! I doubt he has any notion of the true aim of the ringleader. Truss him up, Fletcher, and place him in here on the floor. You may throw the other brigands in the baggage coach. Just make sure the ‘Colonel’ cannot escape. We’ve been after him for several months now!”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Taking an unlikely interest in our highwayman aren’t you Mycroft?”

“Not at all. If I am not mistaken, our young miscreant here,” Mycroft nudged the body on the floor with the toe of his boot, “received his injury while pushing Arthur out of the way of a French musket. From the reports I have since read, the shot would have almost certainly killed our Cousin and lost us the war.”

“Ah. I do believe Arthur sent Mummy a note extolling the Doctor’s praises. It was quite sickening!”

“He is given to somewhat flowery prose at times, but in this case it was definitely justified. I believe the orderlies initially thought our Doctor had his arm more or less completely blown off, given the amount of blood that issued from the wound. If it wasn’t for the prompt action of the young man’s batman, he would not have been alive to make it off the field. As it was the wound was severely infected and they were in hourly expectation of his demise.”

“Stubborn then. I assume he had previously been informed of the death of his brother?”

“Yes. Familial duty aiding his recovery no doubt,” Mycroft mused.

“Lucky he wasn’t a Holmes then,” retorted the younger brother, slumping back on the seat as the carriage resumed its progress.

“Lucky indeed!!”

The younger brother fidgeted momentarily. “You won’t be getting that colt, by the way. I consider that ‘bet’ of ours to be a part of the act. Find your own birthday present for Mummy!”

“I already have!” retorted his older brother, nudging their highwayman with an elegantly shod foot.

Sherlock frowned. “The soldier?”

“Precisely!” smirked his brother. “Think of how bored Mummy gets when the Assembly Rooms are closed, and how much she enjoys the challenge of turning around the misfortunes of her circle of acquaintances! Now think of how much enjoyment she could get from finding some suitable employment for our friend here, as well as solving his problems with his dependants! The more extreme the situation, the more fascinating she will find it!”

Sherlock bowed to his brother in acknowledgement.

“A masterful stroke. Not only will it deal with her boredom, it will also prevent her incessant questioning of the European situation and forestall her protests on my taking over the second parlour to conduct my experiments. Masterful indeed!”

Mycroft looked at their captive. “One cannot help but feel some slight remorse at the thought of what he will be put through, however.”

“Yes. The endless hours of questioning: ‘Are you acquainted with Lord and Lady Tight-wad?’, ‘Does your mother takes the waters at Bath during the Season?’, ‘Would your sister be opposed to an arranged marriage?’, ‘Has Dear Arthur been taking the tonic I sent him for his congestion?’” Sherlock shuddered.

“Quite! All in all, though monstrous, it is a far more befitting punishment than any His Majesty’s Courts could devise.”

“Torture by ‘Polite Society’. Perhaps we should export its like to the Continent.”

“Presumably, brother dear, Napoleon has his own ‘torturer’ in the form of his Josephine!”

“Not the same as a bored Mummy!”

“No indeed!” Mycroft agreed with a shudder. “No indeed!” 

 

#-#-#-#-#-#

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification: 
> 
> Hulks: Decomissioned ships moored in the Thames and used as a prison. Conditions were abyssmal and disease and death were rife.
> 
> Lord Mycroft Holmes, Duke of Bedford, is 32 y.o, married with two children and holds a ‘minor position’ in  
> the equivalent of Military Intelligence at the time of the Napoleonic Wars.
> 
> Sir Sherlock Holmes, The Earl of Eddelsfield, is his 25 y.o. younger brother and heir, just down from Oxford and eternally bored.
> 
> Captain/Doctor/Sir John Watson was a Doctor and Officer in the 33rd Regiment of Foot during the latter stages of the Peninsula War under Arthur Wellesley (the future Duke of Wellington). He is 25 y.o.
> 
> The youngest of three children, John assumed the Baronetcy on the death of his older brother following shortly on the heels of his father’s, and finds himself crippled by dual death taxes and the bad gambling debts of his older sibling.  
> Having to provide for his sick mother, unwed sister, widowed sister-in-law and niece, he is reluctantly pulled into the planning of a series of highway robberies by the owner of his brother’s debts (Col. Sebastian Moran) as a means of avoiding the hand-over of the estate.


End file.
